


little lies

by ShadesinBlue



Series: patience [7]
Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Break Up, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 08:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue
Summary: “Sorry,” Slash drawls, one shoulder dragging up into a lazy shrug. “Woulda used my car but ya’ know,” he licks his lips, “it’s kinda out of order right now.”(a club. a set-up. intoxicated heartbreak.)





	little lies

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything or anyone in this story, and the following is a complete work of fiction.  
> Title comes from Fleetwood Mac's song, "Little Lies".  
> Many thanks to [@inkk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk) for helping me write this series.

Axl surveys the dark club, bored with the night’s events. The band Tommy had sworn up and down was, and quote, ‘Led Zeppelin all over again’, had been, at best, poor impersonators, and at worst—

Well.

He guesses there could be worse ways to spend a Monday night. Last Monday, for example, he’d been seated in the principal’s office, smirk firmly in place as he’d admitted to bashing Slash’s fucking lights in. His mother hadn’t been shocked in the slightest when he’d brought his suspension form home to be signed. While Axl hasn’t exactly missed classes, or people, or Slash’s shit-talking, he has grown increasingly bored with lying in bed all day. Which explains his current presence at this local concert on the edge of town, tucked inside a seedy nightclub that Nikki had to bribe them into by the skin of his teeth. 

Axl sighs, leans against the wall scribbled over with Sharpie and stained by various brown splotches. He eyes the flickering lights, the dusty floor, the tables heaped with trash, and wonders if this place is legally allowed to remain open. There’s no chance in hell he's braving the bathroom, not after Tommy stumbled out complaining about dried vomit on all the toilet seats. Nasty shit.

There’s a cup of piss-warm beer in his hand that he’s been swirling around for the last twenty minutes. He’s not sure he wants to drink tonight, never been much of a drinker at all. Still, Steven is blathering on about the possibility of aliens being related to Loch Ness, and Axl really isn’t sure he can get through that conversation without the help of some liquid humor. 

He scans the room, hoping to make eye contact with anyone remotely interesting. All he spots are tipsy club-goers, most on the far side of thirty with the lines to show it. Izzy sits forward, hat obscuring Axl’s view of the woman attempting to fit an unopened beer bottle down the front of her skin-tight dress. Rolling his eyes, he turns away, meets Nikki’s self-satisfied grin, scowls hard, and looks anywhere else. 

It’s an accident, really, that Axl spots them right then. A mistake, the fact that he keeps watching, gaze fixed on Duff’s tall frame staggering into the nearest wall. Slash follows, body sliding over Duff’s and staying there. Axl feels his eye twitch as he locks onto the wandering hand wrapping around Duff’s waist, clenching tight, possessive. Mouth curled into a smirk, Slash leans in, whispers something in Duff’s ear that turns the latter a vivid shade of red. There’s a strange looseness to both of their movements, an odd little flutter of hand motions that worry him without a known cause. He hesitates, eyes searching before he decides its best to stop whatever conclusion his brain was about to form. Axl scowls, turns away because after all it’s none of his business.

His decision not to watch is broken when he catches the amused expression on Nikki’s face, quirked eyebrow and half-smile plastered on, as his eyes remain trained past Axl’s shoulder. Whipping back around, Axl’s focus narrows to the crooked fingers in Duff’s belt loop; the grinning teeth clacking against Duff’s in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, all while Slash tugs him out the side-door. Another moment, door slanting open to allow a shaft of moonlight in, soaking the two of them a faded blue—then, they’re gone. 

Nikki let’s out a low whistle from behind, the sound grating in his ears. “Guess they didn’t wanna stick around, huh?” The implication is layered in his words, undertone sleazy in all the ways Axl refuses to associate with Duff. With Duff and Slash.

“Oh, they’re definitely gonna fuck,” Tommy chimes in, already three sheets to the wind from whatever he managed to sneak into his water bottle. 

“As fucked as they are right now? No way, man.” Steven giggles, voice prattling on. Axl isn’t listening. He’s far too stuck on the previous comment, on the way it doesn’t sit right in his gut. 

He turns around, sees the barely noticeable tell of nerves on Izzy’s face at Steven’s words, and he knows. 

“Fucked how, exactly?” The question is a whisper, his voice deadly calm. He knows, he already fucking knows, and he’s so furious all at once he can’t think straight. But he wants to hear it from someone else, laid out bare. Needs to be sure before he runs after Duff the way he’s been aching to do ever since he lost sight of him. 

Izzy opens his mouth, probably to placate him with whatever bullshit stops Axl from flying off the handle. Nikki beats him to it.

“Whaddya think, Rosie?” He bats his eyelashes at Axl, smarmy fucker he is, grinning away like the night is finally getting entertaining enough for him.

Axl snaps his gaze to Izzy. “Is this fuckin’ bastard sayin’ what I think he is, Izz?” He’s already halfway out of his seat, old wooden chair creaking as it slides back quick. Has he really been so blind that he’s missed the fact Duff is running around with Slash, getting high?

“Axe, he’s a big boy, he can make his own decis—”

“Not this one,” he snarls, in motion before Izzy can reach out, stop him from leaving. 

He storms out of the building, momentum slamming the door against the outer wall when he shoves it open. His boots thud against pavement as Axl scans the rows of poorly parked cars. They couldn’t have gotten far, and if they did, he’ll chase the fuckers down. There's no chance in hell he’s letting Duff wander off with Slash, high as a fucking kite, and halfway to drunk. It’s not like he’s able to take care of himself in that state, and Axl damn well doesn’t trust Slash to do the job for him. 

A bubble of panic wells in his chest, threatening to burst. Axl can feel his movements growing frantic as he darts around the parking lot, dodging around cars, searching for a spot of bleach blonde hair. Did they get in Duff’s car? The thought sends Axl’s stomach rolling with nerves, images of an inebriated Duff behind the wheel, eyes heavy-lidded, flashing through his mind. But there’s no way they could’ve gotten so far in such a short time. They’ve got to be here, somewhere.

And when he finds Duff—because he will find Duff—Axl is apologizing. He’ll get down on his knees if he has to, he swears it on his own shitty soul because this worry eating at him, gnawing at his core, is not worth whatever shreds of pride he’s been attempting to save. Duff is worth more than that—he always has been. And Axl has been incredibly stupid, letting Duff slip through his fingers like he meant nothing, all over a petty fight. A misunderstanding. 

He’s going to win Duff back. No matter what it takes. Everything can go back to the way it was, without the worry, the hurt, the stupid fucking longing. Slash can crawl back to whatever hole he came from. All he needs to do is find Duff.

He’s reached the row his truck is parked in when he hears it. A tiny sound, hushed beneath the echoed noise emanating from the nearby club, muffled low. Axl thinks it might be a whimper.

A step closer in the direction of the sound, another whimper, shushed this time like its coming from between fingers. The sudden realization hits him that the noises are coming from his truck bed. Dread curls deep in his gut, twisting his insides tight with dawning apprehension.

He knows he should leave, before he sees what will be impossible to erase from his mind. He can turn around now, tune out the soft groans coming from the bed of his truck, pretend he never left the club. Sit inside full of denial, smile with his friends, drink a few beers and forget. 

But then a small sigh, so insignificant except for the fact it’s Duff’s voice wrapped around that soft sound. Axl’s feet are moving forward before he even registers what his body is doing. By the time he does realize, it’s too late. He’s standing directly in front of the open bed of his truck now, and he can see everything. Everything. 

He wishes he couldn’t.

The slivers of light from the moon paint the scene in shades of silver and white, strokes of light shifting on their skin, off of the open belt buckles of their jeans. Almost romantic, if Axl looks at it the right way. He blinks, sees the image shift and ripple, like he’s watching from underwater and everything is in blurred shadow. The hands buried in yellow strands, the litter of livid, fresh bruises dotting Duff’s neck. He can’t force himself to turn away, to stop staring at the harsh grip Slash has on Duff’s hips. 

The sound that comes out of Axl’s mouth could be a sob, might be hysterical laughter. He isn’t sure, couldn’t tell up from down right now. What he does know is that Duff’s eyes flutter open, lock onto his, pupils blown wide. That pretty mouth shapes into a loose gasp, and all Axl can think is that he only got the chance to kiss that mouth a handful of times. Not nearly enough, not as much as he wanted. 

“Saul, stop, c’mon stop,” Duff mutters, words slurring around the edges. He bats once at Slash’s chest, limp fist uncurling. His eyes are still caught onto Axl’s, wide and unblinking, glazed over like he can barely tell if Axl’s truly there. 

Slash pauses, panting a bit, breath stirring out in cold puffs of air. He sways, his hand clenching around Duff’s body to hold him upright. Axl raises his eyes from Duff’s, meets Slash’s stare. 

“So ya’ finally got here.” The words don’t make sense, only for a moment; then, understanding crashes down around Axl, drowning him in hurt and anger. Slash’s curls stick to his cheeks, his neck, but Axl can clearly make out the derision on his face. The glint of cruel malice in his eyes, burning bright in the darkness. He’d wanted Axl to find them, of course he had. 

There’s a part of Axl that wants to ask Slash why he’s doing this. It’s a tiny part, insignificant. Because deep down, Axl already knows the answer. Slash's gaze flicks over him, taking in the slight tremble to Axl’s jaw, the bleak upset on his face. He smiles—wide and sweet, like a little kid who got exactly what they wanted for Christmas.

“Sorry,” Slash drawls, one shoulder dragging up into a lazy shrug. “Woulda used my car but ya’ know,” he licks his lips, “it’s kinda out of order right now.”

He laughs at the misery on Axl’s face. A hand rubs circles on the bare skin of Duff’s lower back, eliciting a shiver from Duff, and Axl feels despair settling in at the sight. 

“Don’t worry,” Slash murmurs, eyes slipping down to Duff, surveying. “We’ll be done here soon.” He leans forward, attention back on Axl, kisses the base of Duff’s neck. Duff shudders, sighing. All Axl can do is stare, fingers going numb, mind blank yet churning. 

“Axe,” and that’s Izzy come to save him, his hand curling on Axl’s upper arm like a lifeline. He tugs, hard enough to pull Axl away from the two in his car. Another tug. “Come on, man,” said near his ear, insistent. “You don’t need to see this. Axe, come on.” 

Finally he moves, turning in a clumsy circle, too fast and too slow all at once. Izzy steadies him, hand still around his arm, guiding him away from the parking lot.

He isn’t sure how long it takes to make their way inside, the amount of time passing before he sinks into his previous seat. Axl is aware of the others watching him, Izzy shaking his head in response to their worried, questioning looks. A bottle is pressed against his open palm and Axl glances up to find Nikki pushing beer into his hands. 

Axl downs it without thinking of the consequences. Tommy hesitantly passes him another, gone quicker than the last. Before long he’s accumulated a neat little group of empty beer bottles, shining amber beneath the overhead lights. He’s taken to sipping from the remains of Tommy’s water bottle, the taste of cheap whiskey far louder than Izzy’s whispered attempts at comfort. 

“Enough for one night,” Izzy says, wrestling the bottle out of Axl’s death grip. “Damn it, Axl, cool off,” when he reaches across for Nikki’s glass.

“Let him go, Izz. He’ll stop himself,” Steven says, smile dimmed. 

“Nah, he really won’t.” 

Axl rubs at his eyes, pressing knuckles against them until it hurts. He can’t escape Slash and Duff, the image they paint in his mind. Suddenly, he feels stifling hot, breaking into a cold sweat. Axl rises, ignoring Izzy’s questions, stumbles away from the table. 

“Jus’ gonna be out,” he mumbles, swinging an arm in a vague gesture towards the door. Axl doesn’t wait for an answer. 

He staggers out the entrance, hand trailing along the dirty brick wall to keep his balance. Swaying, he makes his way around the corner to the deserted alley, sniffs around the scent of piss, vomit, and garbage. Axl leans against the building, grateful that it’s cool against his throbbing head. He won’t allow his eyes to close, afraid that the images in his head of Duff will break free. Instead, he studies the graffiti paint opposite him, attempts to read the poorly drawn words that overlap. 

A shiver runs down his skin, back of his neck sprouting goosebumps from the nights chill. Axl rubs his hands up his arms in a lazy motion, the barest hint of friction to warm himself. He sways for a second, balance lost when he tilts too far to the side. Hands grab his shoulders before he can fall, stopping his uncoordinated movements and pulling him back. Axl giggles in spite of himself, clapping a chapped hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

“Thanks,” he says, leaning against the wall, allowing it to take his weight. He pats one of the hands still remaining on his shoulder. Axl licks his lips, tastes the faint remains of beer staining the corners of his mouth. “M’little clumsy,” he manages, grinning up into amused green eyes.

“Nah, you’re just shit drunk,” Nikki drawls. His fingers unfurl from the lapels of Axl’s leather jacket, moving back to his side. Axl makes a sloppy grab for them, tugs until Nikki’s palms are clasped around either side of his neck.

“Stay,” he commands. At least, he thinks he does. Truthfully, his words are slurring in his own ears, tone pitifully weak, close to begging. “Feels good.” He leans forward, burrows his head into the crook of Nikki’s neck. The smell of cinnamon hits him, a wave of spice that reminds Axl of brown eyes smiling from the passenger seat. 

“Smell jus’ like him,” he nuzzles Nikki’s throat. “You do, fuckin’ fall candle shit.” He sighs, hands flat against Nikki’s chest. If he closes his eyes, Nikki even feels like Duff; a tall lanky form, pressed against Axl, fitting just right between all of his own empty places. 

“How drunk are you?” marked with a snicker. Axl frowns, the feeling of being made fun of present for a fleeting second before being swept underneath his drunken haze. He doesn’t particularly care if he’s being teased at the moment. 

He thinks on Nikki’s question, eyes sliding shut in concentration. Images flash: Duff’s parted lips, Slash’s gloating eyes watching him in the dark. Axl shudders, shakes his head. “Not enough.”

He feels Nikki pull away, the edges of his black hair tickling Axl’s cheek as he steps back. Axl panics, an immediate impulse, reels him back in with all of his inebriated strength. Nikki barely budges, cocks an eyebrow, smirks.

“Don’ leave,” Axl breathes out. Strands of hair stick to his face, his mouth, and he clumsily tries to brush them aside with one hand, keeping the other firmly fisted in Nikki’s shirt. “Please. Jus’...come on, Niks.”

Nikki shoots him that odd little half-smile, takes a step closer. Another. He presses Axl back into the wall, tucks flying pieces of hair behind Axl’s red-tipped ears. 

“Come on, baby,” Nikki coos, tugging at Axl’s limp arms. “Let’s get you back inside, huh?” Axl may be blitzed out of his mind but he isn’t dumb. He can hear the mocking edge in Nikki’s voice when wrapped around the pet name, can see the glint of laughter in his eyes. Normally, Axl would deck Nikki out cold for referring to him as ‘baby’. Thing is, Axl can’t find it in himself to give a single shit. It feels so good for someone—anyone—to call him an endearment. To hold him, even if it’s to keep him from collapsing onto the ground. He slides his eyes closed. Pretends.

“Say it again.” Nikki stills. A pause, and then—

“Baby,” murmured right into his ear. Axl pictures Duff, pitches the voice higher. 

“You look so fuckin’ pretty, don’t you, baby? Bein’ so good for me right now. Wish you were always this nice.” Axl’s eyelids are squeezed shut so hard he’s seeing starbursts collide in the static darkness. The words aren’t Duff’s at all, nothing like what he’d say. That doesn’t stop the ragged groan escaping his mouth, head tilting back to bare his throat. 

A hand maps a path up his neck, presses a thumb into the hollow dip. Axl swallows. Nikki laughs. 

“You wantin’ something in particular, Rose?” Nikki purrs the words out, and Axl doesn’t need to look in order to imagine the darkness of his gaze, the smug amusement etched onto his face.

He won’t bother responding. Instead, he tugs Nikki hard, misjudging his strength enough to send Nikki head-butting into him with a graceless tumble. Nikki laughs again, low in his throat as he rights himself, hands splayed on either side of Axl’s head. He doesn’t say another word before dipping down to fit his lips against Axl’s own.

Axl responds immediately, one hand looping around Nikki’s neck to keep him close, while the other remains clenched in Nikki’s shirt before sliding down to his waist. A long leg wedges between his own and Axl desperately imagines Duff, as if his life depends on it. He thinks of blonde hair, newly dyed, when he gently wraps his fingers around a fistful of black. Pictures brown eyes gazing down at him with warmth, refuses to open his eyes to meet green. Tilts his chin higher to taste the corners of that mouth—Duff’s mouth, in his mind. 

“Duff,” he moans, cupping the back of that long neck. “M’so sorry, sugar, so sorry, I messed up, sucha idiot, sorry,” interspersed between short, wet kisses that make him feel like he’s running a fever on high. 

“I love you,” he whispers against Duff’s—or is it Nikki’s?—lips. He lets out a shaky breath, wobbles a bit, let’s the arms knotted at the base of his spine catch him. “Love you, Duffy, always loved you.”

Everything stops. The sound of their joint breathing echoes in the quiet air, mouth’s frozen inches apart. Axl surges forward, determined to catch Duff’s lips with his own, to have him back in his arms. He won’t ever let go again. A wave of dizziness hit’s him, sending his stomach tumbling and rolling. The solid grip he has on the shirt loosens, enough so that he can feel it sliding from between his fingers. 

Axl feels his breath hitch in his throat, chest squeezing painfully. “No, no, no,” he mutters, reaching blindly. “Don’ go, Duffy, please, stay.” A grip tightens around his wrist, light. 

“Axl,” and it’s Nikki’s voice, not Duff’s. Axl opens his eyes, vision blurring, swimming, then straightening out into Nikki’s form. Green eyes watch him, an expression Axl can’t name, much less associate with Nikki, reflecting back at him. 

“Axe,” Nikki begins, “It’s time to go inside.”

“But you…” Axl blinks in confusion. He scans the area around them, empty street and empty alley. Looks for yellow hair, nicked boots, that smile he could never ignore. “Where’s Duff?”

“With Slash.”

Axl chokes out a manic laugh, fingernails biting into his palms. He pushes off of the wall, away from Nikki. The world spins in a mess of color, light, and sound. Axl catches a whiff of cinnamon that has nothing to do with Duff. A sharp pain hits his gut, and without further warning, Axl leans over and vomits on Nikki’s shoes. 

“Fuck,” he hears above him, followed by louder cursing that he pays no mind to. 

Axl spits out lingering bits of stomach acid, watches it drop onto the dirty concrete below. A door slams, and he finds himself alone in the alley, once again. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, because there isn’t really anything left to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for more to come in this series.  
> Come visit me on tumblr: [@thebyegonedays](https://thebyegonedays.tumblr.com/)


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